“Mother?” Cora shook her head.
It couldn’t be her.
Cora’s mother didn’t spend time with Cora’s father. Not after his habit of bedding chorus girls had been discovered. Suspicions that could be ignored in private were rather less easily dismissed when they appeared splayed on the covers of gossip magazines. Her father hadn’t stopped being a ladies’ man when he’d slipped a ring on Mother’s finger, and once his fame had risen with Cora’s, he certainly hadn’t halted his instincts to enjoy himself.
Still. After the trauma of the last few days, Cora was awfully glad for any contact with the outside world.
“Did you hear about the news?” Cora asked in a small voice.
“Naturally,” Pop said. “We might be thousands of miles away, but we’ve still got great news here.”
“We want you to come back at once,” Mother said.
Oh.
That was nice.
“We want you to speak to someone,” Mother said.
“When I’m back?”
“Right now,” Pop said.
Her father’s voice seemed to beam through the receiver, and despite all the stress of the past few days, she found herself returning his smile.
“Hello, Miss Clarke.” Mr. Bellomo’s voice rang clearly over the line.
Mr. Bellomo.
The head of the studio.
The man who’d dismissed her.
“Merry Christmas,” Cora said.
The last time she’d seen him, he’d seemed very intent on not ever seeing her again.
“Merry Christmas to you,” he repeated. “Now, I don’t have time for pleasantries, we’re having a smashing party here, but I am thrilled to be able to talk with you. We’ve got a big picture coming up, and your daddy thinks you’re just the one to play opposite Pierre Ballard.”
“Me?” Cora stammered. “But I don’t even have a contract—”
“It’s a top quality film. We need an actress who’s worldly. Someone who’s seen things—” Mr. Bellomo paused. “Horrible things.”
“You want me to work for you?” Cora sputtered. “Did you read the newspaper?”
She didn’t want to remind him that her name was now written in big block letters on every broadsheet, but she couldn’t bear for the opportunity to be taken from her once he had.
“Ah, yes. Quite the scandal you’ve got going,” the producer said.
The thing was, his voice didn’t sound appropriately upset.
“Nice way to stay in the news,” he continued.
“So the offer stands?” Cora asked.
“Naturally,” Mr. Bellomo said. “I don’t waste time.”
“Thank you for your offer.”
“So we’ll see you in a week,” the producer said. “We’ll put you in a brand new seven-year contract.”
Cora hesitated. This was the call she’d been waiting for. She should be jumping up and down. Her legs itched, and she wasn’t certain if it was from a desire to do just that, or if she wanted to pace. Trudging on the thick snow seemed for some ridiculous reason appealing.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Cora said.
“Think about it?” The producer’s voice became shrill. “Think?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not a philosopher, honey,” the man said. “You’re an actress. And I’m offering you work. Big work. On thousands of very large screens.”
“And I’m grateful,” Cora said.
“But you gotta think?” he asked resignedly.
“I’ll call you,” Cora promised.
“Better make it soon,” he said. “If you’ve gotta break my heart, I’d prefer to make someone else’s dreams come true.”
“Give me until New Year’s.”
“New Year’s?” The man practically sputtered.
In fact, he might have sputtered, and Cora probably should have been relieved to be so far from the man’s telephone.
“Yes,” she said.
Cowering was in the past.
“Will that be a problem?” Cora asked.
“Of course not,” he said. “This studio has many things to do while wait for you. Many, many things.”
Cora smiled. At one point those words would have scared her. Now, she only said, “Splendid.”
“Cora! Cora!” Her father’s voice came through the line. It sounded frantic. “Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you just tell Mr. Bellomo, Mr. Vincent Bellomo of Bellomo Studios, to wait?”
Cora smiled. “I believe I did.”
“Do you know how hard it was to get him to call?”
“It’s a big decision.” Cora hung up the phone and went to join the others in the drawing room.
“Who was that?” Veronica asked.
“Hollywood. They—er—want me to come back. They want me to star in a new film.”
Veronica beamed. “Honey, I’m so proud of you!”
“I believe they actually liked the scandal.”
“How positively smashing. I’m glad this horrible holiday didn’t derail your career.”
“I’m sorry it derailed your—”
“Marriage?” Veronica laughed, though the sound managed to be bitter. “Though that wasn’t the holiday’s fault. Thank goodness you found that my husband was a murderer. It’s not the sort of negative trait one can live with.”
“Especially since his mistress seemed eager to leave about clues to implicate you.”
“No, indeed. Though honestly, I do think that even divorcing in Reno is more respectable than having a partnership dissolve because of execution. I do disagree with her there.”
“I don’t believe she liked you,” Cora said.
“No.” Veronica tossed her hair. “And so many people do.”
“What will you do now?”
“I’ll return home. To California. And all those darling, darling fans. I’ll have to see when the next ship sails for New York City. Perhaps we can spend Christmas on board. I’ve really no urge to spend it in this country, no matter how good mince pies are supposed to be.”
Cora hesitated.
“You will be going back, won’t you, honey?” Veronica asked.
It would be easy to say yes, to go along with Veronica’s plan and that of her parents and Mr. Bellomo.
Everyone expected her to do that, and the decision would fulfill all her instincts for sensibleness and practicality.
But she still hesitated.
It might be nice, just this once, to do something for herself. She’d been an actress for years. These past days had taught her to not take anything for granted, even her life.
Veronica narrowed her eyes. “Honey, I do believe you don’t want to come with me. You do know I’m exciting?”
“I want to try something actually quiet.”
“But you’re a starlet!” Veronica exclaimed. “Quiet should not be a goal.”
Cora smiled, conscious that Veronica would be just fine. Her husband might have been a murderer, an occupation no bride would desire for her partner, but Veronica would return to Hollywood now and continue working. Cora suspected she would even enjoy it more than being an aristocrat in England, no matter if even Bel Air mansions did not equal the size of Yorkshire manor houses.
“All the same,” Cora said. “I think I should try it.”
“And where will you find that elusive state?” Veronica asked.
“I’ll visit my great aunt in Sussex.”
“On the South Downs?” Veronica rested her hand against her silk blouse and fiddled with her oversized bow in an uncharacteristic show of distress. “Heavens, you will succeed in finding quiet there. But you will be beside yourself with boredom! Why, there will be nothing to do except stare at the English Channel! And even that doesn’t extend very far, nor does it have any of the magnificence of the Pacific. I doubt you’ll experience a single tsunami!”
“Nevertheless, I want to visit,” Cora said.
Veron
ica gave a languid sigh. “Very well, honey.”
Cora turned to Archibald. “Do you fancy visiting Sussex?”
Archibald tilted his head to one side, as if calculating whether the strange word might entail anything delightful.
“How about a walk?” Cora asked.
At this, Archibald leaped up and dashed toward her, barking as his feet pattered against the parquet floor, and then he sprinted to the main door.
Wexley and the dowager duchess flashed looks of disapproval, but Cora followed Archibald. She slipped his lead onto him, and they stepped outside. The ice in the moat had nearly melted, and the sky was devoid of either snow or sleet.
Archibald wagged his tail, enjoying the now-cleared drive. He marched toward the fields, away from the towering manor house and the evil that they’d found within.
ARE YOU READY TO READ the next book in the Sleuthing Starlet series? Cora visits her great aunt in Sussex for a quiet holiday ... Unfortunately, her great aunt’s employer insists Cora attend a dinner party because she is convinced someone is trying to murder her husband.
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A DEADLY HOUSE PARTY.
Former Hollywood starlet Cora Clarke may be new to England, but she does know that visiting the seaside is supposed to be a soothing experience. The snowy white cliffs and foamy ocean are indeed idyllic, but when her great aunt’s employer insists someone is trying to murder her husband, Cora is whisked off to a house party with her pet bichon. When someone soon turns up dead, Cora discovers Sussex might possess scandals that exceed anything a Hollywood director might conjure for the silver screen... Start reading DANGER ON THE DOWNS today!
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Sneak Peak
MARCH, 1938
Sussex
The rain probably wasn’t a harbinger, but Cora Clarke still shivered.
There’d been little rain in Los Angeles where Cora had been a movie star for fifteen years, and there’d been still less rain in Las Vegas, where she’d lived prior.
The directors, though, had always included rain at ominous moments. Any hint of sorrow, even the impending kind, seemed to cause them to bark out instructions to wheel in rain machines.
Unfortunately, this rain couldn’t be stopped by pressing a button. This rain was serious.
The rain thudded against the train’s carriage, as if seeking to compete with the clatter of the wheels moving over the track. The view outside had been blurry, as rain sloshed down the windows, but now condensation obscured even that. Archibald lay lackadaisically at her feet, and she bent to stroke his curly white coat.
“You’re used to England,” she said.
Archibald rolled onto his back, as if triumphant at the accomplishment, and she ruffled the hair on his belly.
The rain had descended throughout her journey from London Victoria Station, and it seemed unlikely to stop before she exited the carriage onto the platform in Polegate. She inhaled, quelling the strange nervousness that ran through her, and urged Archibald to follow her.
He wagged his tail, and his feet pitter-patted over the corridor of the now mostly empty train. Most of the passengers had been well-dressed businessmen, attired in six-button double-breasted suit jackets with wide lapels and wider shoulders, who had departed at Lewes.
The men who were left seemed more tired, and their cheaper suits gleamed in the fluorescent light.
The conductor announced Polegate, emphasizing each hard vowel in a manner typically found in vaudeville showmen, and Cora hoisted up her trunk and stepped from the door of the carriage, ignoring the prickle of nervousness that coursed through her. Archibald followed, wagging his tail despite the onslaught of rain, and rushed to investigate the weeds that poked from the platform.
Cora’s transparent oiled silk coat might stretch past her knees, and the sleeves might reach her wrists, but it still managed to seem too short when confronted with the sudden surge of rain which seemed to be of a strange horizontal variety.
Cora supposed the rain might be an improvement on the snow that had blanketed Yorkshire. The snow had covered every slope, accompanied by icicles that dangled from every roof, like makeshift crystals. Thankfully, the snow had vanished as she traveled south.
Nothing sparkled on the platform in Polegate. The sky was a gunmetal gray, accompanied by the slightly less-gray clouds that sailed over it with great speed, as if seeking to intimidate the German army, rumored by some to be intending invasion. Rain tumbled down with equal force, striking against the worn platform with a noise more suited to the particularly violent scenes in certain James Cagney films.
She strode from the platform to a small, Italian-style building. All train stations seemed to be adorned with flourish, as if to make its visitors believe they’d landed in a grandiose location, alleviating the chore of travel with columns and crown molding.
“Cora? Is that you?” A female voice pierced through the raindrops, and Cora quickened her steps.
“I’m Cora.” Her voice seemed small, swallowed by the storm.
This must be Great Aunt Maggie. Cora had only spoken to her on the phone. She’d half expected to see an aging woman in scarlet hair topped with a turban. Mother had been a chorus dancer after all.
But the woman before her had curly gray hair and a practical dark coat and a rather less practical pastel scarf. Her face was similarly plump, and her mere presence managed to conjure images of hot apple crumbles and clotted cream covered scones.
“Oh, my dear. My sweet child.” The woman’s eyes crinkled, and in the next moment, Cora was clasped into her arms. “I’m your great aunt.”
Cora’s heart warmed, and her shoulders eased.
“I’m so happy to meet you, my dear,” Great Aunt Maggie murmured, pulling her even closer into the rather un-English hug.
But then Great Aunt Maggie wasn’t truly English. She was Irish. When Cora’s mother had moved to America, Great Aunt Maggie had opted for the rather shorter boat ride to England to seek her own opportunities.
Finally, her great aunt stepped away. She gazed down at Archibald, who had halted his exploration of the Polegate Station weed offerings, and was now gazing at them with something like curiosity.
“This must be Archibald,” Great Aunt Maggie said solemnly.
Archibald sat and offered her his paw.
“And he’s clever,” Great Aunt Maggie said.
“Yes.” Cora smiled in Archibald’s direction. Her dog’s previous owner had given him an extensive education, and Archibald seemed to take pleasure in displaying his knowledge.
“Well, let’s get you inside,” Great Aunt Maggie said. “Mrs. Ivanov insisted we bring the car. She is ever so eager to make your acquaintance.”
They scurried from the train station to an elegant dark vehicle. A man popped out and opened the door to her. She was vaguely aware of white hair and a herringbone ivy cap.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Clarke,” the man said.
Archibald leaped into the car and found a space on the back seat. He gave a contented yawn, nestling into a woolen blanket.
“That was Archibald,” Cora said.
“I’m Mr. Mitu,” the man said.
“He’s the butler at Orchid Manor,” Great Aunt Maggie said as they entered the car, and her voice had a hint of pride in it.
“Your Great Aunt Maggie works upstairs. Though she could be in the kitchen. Her food is most delicious,” Mr. Mitu said. “Scrumptious, as the English say.”
“Mr. Mitu is Bulgarian,” Great Aunt Maggie explained.
“But I’ve bee
n here for years,” Mr. Mitu said proudly. “Even before Mrs. Ivanov decided to build her new property.”
Cora noted a look of fondness between them, and she wondered if she was visiting a particularly collegial place, or if there might possibly be something between them.
“I’m excited to spend time with you, Great Aunt Maggie,” Cora said.
Great Aunt Maggie turned around. “You’re quite welcome to refer to me as your aunt,”
“Though you should never doubt your aunt’s greatness,” Mr. Mitu said gallantly.
“I’m beginning to see that,” Cora said.
They continued their introductions, and the car soon made its way from the town. The windshield wipers worked furiously, and the town became visible. Brick buildings, their colors not managed to be obscured by the rain, lined the mostly empty streets. Then the car pulled away from the town and headed through farmland. The fields were not yet green, but the vast spaces of various shades of brown managed to still be beautiful.
They passed grandiose, half-timbered brick farmhouses from past centuries. Some of them had thatched roofs.
“What is Orchid Manor like?” Cora asked hesitantly. “Is it quite old?”
She’d had an imperfect experience with manor houses recently.
“Not like any manor house you’ve ever seen,” Aunt Maggie said, and Cora’s shoulders relaxed a fraction.
“My mistress is far too modern to live in one of those old homes with gargoyles and columns and such,” Aunt Maggie said.
Mr. Mitu joined her in laughter.
“It is a splendid house,” he said, and his shoulders seemed broader and his back straighter. “It’s right on the seaside.”
“Indeed. They were going to build the house inland, near the old house,” Aunt Maggie explained. “But last year they announced they would build it on the coast. Personally, I’m quite happy with the location. The view is special, even if it does get cold in the winter. I am so excited about having you here. You’ll love it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Cora said. “Where is Mrs. Ivanov from?”
“Oh, she’s English,” her great aunt said with a smile. “She was married to a baron before. His family has lived on this property for centuries. Now she’s married to a rather dashing Bulgarian.”
Calamity Under the Chandelier Page 19